Angsty Oneshots
by secretsofgray
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin; NaruSaku
1. A Golden Silhouette

**Here it is, a series of unrelated NaruSaku oneshots, exploring the dynamics of their relationship. Not really a manifesto but call it that if you wish. I'm taking suggestions, of any of you have 'em. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. **

The shadows always hid things - blanketed by the night, he could bare himself in a way that was impossible during the day. It was like his soul was photosensitive or something, and night was when he became his true self.

Though the shadows hid things, the revealed more than they hid. This he knew. And he was growing weary. _It ends tonight, _he thought. _Everything ends tonight. _He was slumped against a wall. He didn't know why, only that every night for the past goddamn month he had walked to this exact spot and sat, thinking of everything and nothing, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It had become routine for him to try and fall asleep, fail miserably, then walk. Walking helped him clear his head, allowed him to sort things out.

But it was always hard to come to a true solution when nothing was whole.

_But then again, _he reminded himself, _nothing's broken. Not fully. Not beyond repair. _

At least, that's what he hoped.

He didn't start when he heard the footsteps, only patted the spot next to him. She sat down, leaning her head back onto to wall. He didn't speak, although he'd asked her to come. Too many words were fighting to spill out of him, and one wrong thing could mess it all up.

_Not like it isn't messed up enough, _he thought bitterly with a glance in her direction. She was looking up, at the stars, so she didn't catch him looking. She looked ethereal in the moonlight, paler and almost transparent, like if he reached out to touch her she'd disappear.

She was like him, he knew; the same photosensitive heart. She became vulnerable at night – she was his shadow girl, his other half, and a myriad of contradictions. Tough as nails but fragile as china; fallible but incorruptible; vulnerable but closed off; his-but-not-his-and-his-alone.

"How are things?" he asked finally, though he knew the answer.

"Meh," she said. Had he asked at any other time, any other situation, he would've gotten a 'fine' or 'okay,' maybe a 'surviving.' But now, under the cover of night, he got the truth. "Broken."

Something cracked inside her – he _felt _it, felt her broken spirit, and felt a pang go through him at her words. The same pang when she wrote off how much she meant to him, when he had almost, _almost _reached somewhere with her but she was already pulling away, scared and unsure and lost to him.

He wondered if he was too pushy, too overbearing. But no, he had never done anything outside of the night, nothing no one else ever saw, nothing that carried over till morning.

Nothing that _mattered. _

He felt her retreating now, moving herself back into her armor. But it was Night, and inevitably, a tear slid down her cheek.

She wasn't crying for herself, that he knew. She wasn't crying because she was sad. She was crying for those who couldn't cry, for what was lost, for what would never be fixed, because she had held everything inside her, dammit, and it was killing her.

She cried for the paper-thin stages of lies their lives had become.

He slung an arm around her, almost without thinking. He'd been upset enough to know that when you were this low, words rarely helped, but the slightest action of comfort spoke worlds.

She froze for a second, but leaned into him. Under the cover of shadows, that was when she could expose herself. Then she could lean on others, accept the help that was offered to her. Then and only then.

That, it seemed, was the only time he was needed. He didn't like it, no; but he was weak. He couldn't stand seeing her in pain, because it pained him just as much.

He tightened his grip on her, pulled her so he was facing him, her face at the hollow of his collarbone.

Had he become paper? Had he become a paper player on the stage of deceptions, only real in the Night?

"Why?" he whispered. "Why now?"

He didn't think that she heard him, but she did. "Why what?" She said into his shoulder.

"Why do you need me now? Why do you only acknowledge this – _us_ – now?" She went still and rigid as if he'd yelled, though he only spoke in barely-above a whisper. He tightened his arms around her, closed the space between them.

"Why is it that I feel if I stop holding on for a second then you'll be gone?" his voice cracked, and she felt water on her neck. It broke her already crushed heart.

"Because," she said, her voice raw and fragile as glass, "I'm broken. And I'm still trying to fix myself." It was half-assed, she knew. But it was the best she had.

He knew what she was saying, and not-saying. That she was afraid of what she didn't know when she didn't even know herself. But still…

"You're not the only one who's broken," he whispered. She looked up at him, something fragile in her eyes. He held her gaze, and dammit, a tear fell out of the corner of his eye.

But she lifted her hand and wiped them away with her sleeve. "Why?" he whispered again, catching her hand and holding it to his cheek.

"Because…now is the only time that I can fall. Now's the only time you're _you._" She said. She was staring at his collarbone, not quite meeting his eyes. "Because when the sun comes up I know that things change." She hated it. The changing, the cycle, the picking-up-the-pieces.

"I don't want them to change," he murmured, tightening his hand around hers. "If I could freeze time right now, I would."

He heard the catch in her breathing, felt her hand slipping out of his. Something inside him began to fall, right at the point before it smashed and shattered.

But no, she was merely wrapping her arms around him, catching that something before it fell.

"Why do the stakes always shift between dawn and day?" she whispered. He tried to swallow and discovered that he couldn't. "Because," he said, voice hoarse, "We're caught in this maddening game of dancing. Of falling. And we can only fall when no one else can see."

"Dancing, falling, catching, repeat," she muttered, and there was the hint of the humor he knew.

"I'm sick of it," he said, with a vehemence that startled them both. "Dancing, falling, catching, _end._" He shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts, trying to find the road they should follow. "Let's – let's –" but he cut himself off and looked up, squinted. There sky was turning to gray and pink was just on the horizon. He felt his stomach turn to a ball of lead.

She looked up and followed his gaze. A broken semblance of a smile tugged at a corner of her mouth.

She disentangled herself from his arms and leapt to her feet. She took a look at the rising sun, and offered him a hand.

"Let's start over," she said. "How's that sound?"

And in that moment, her silhouette, framed with the gold of the rising sun, her hand stretched toward him – _a golden silhouetted. Bare and hidden. Brave and afraid. _

He – _they –_ were all this and more. He took her hand, heaved himself to his feet.

"Like the best thing dawn can bring."

**As always, let me know your thoughts.**


	2. Mutual Destruction

**Alright. I've decided to make this a collection of one-shots. This isn't really affiliated with the previous chapter, save for that there's the same sense of well, I-don't-know-what-to-call-it. Be forewarned that this is very introspective and a little ambiguous, more of an experiment than anything, written because I woke up today with sentences from this on my mind. **

**I may change the title. Just keep a look out. Summary should stay the same.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. **

**~*This Little Game of Chess*~**

He sits there and sees them and watches and it's _killing him_, because it's killing _her._

He remembers when it was the three of them, sitting and laughing and joking, because the world was simpler and they were young and nothing could break up their friendship.

_Lies. All lies._ Because now she was with _him_, and _he_ was the perfect little posterchild; and he was only a hyper blond gothboy who could see through cheap façades.

She was smiling, _smiling, _dammit, but it was broken, shattered, weak. She smiles at _him, _smiles at both of them, but she's broken on the inside and it's killing her and _why won't she leave him?_

But he knows why; _he's_ perfect and beautiful and everything that he could never be and she was perfectly flawed and drawn to the dark side like a moth to light.

They'd see each other, passing, and she'd smile and pretend that she was happy and he'd grin back and pretend that it wasn't killing him to see her that way, because they both knew that she was destroying herself and that _he_ was destroying her, but they wouldn't say anything because that would just open up a can of worms, wouldn't it?

And then _he'd_ catch them talking, catch her talking to him, and he'd saunter over all slicked-back hair and black eyes and, _"Sakura. Let's go._"

And he and Sasuke would nod at each other, and maybe shake hands if they're feeling particularly civil. But most of the time they're not feeling civil and they glare, glare, glare, blue eyes meeting black in a deadly staring contest. And she'd stand there, wondering why she was doing this to herself, wondering exactly when everything fell apart; but by the time she has a maybe half-formed answer, Sasuke's tugging her away from him, away from blue eyes and spikey hair and (possible) salvation, dragging her down with him in an never-ending spiral.

And he's heartbroken, waiting wishing _wanting,_ for her to come back, for his best friend to regain the missing spark, for her to _stop killing herself and start living, please, Sakura, because I love you._

When they talk – when he confronts her – behind the shed or in the closet or on the roof, like stolen trysts, secret rendezvouses – he can't tell the difference between his thoughts and his words, and he's trying to convince her to leave, to get help, if not for her sake then for his, to _stop this it's killing you and just leave him already, I can tell you're not happy._

"Why?" she might ask, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him a look, one he really can't name because he's a stupid boy who wears his heart on the sleeves of his trench coat, thankyouverymuch, and he might-just-maybe be able to reach her, and _it's because I love you. Isn't it obvious?_

"_Because I can see you're not happy, Sakura. You're not fooling anyone."_

He can't tell what he thinks or what he says, or maybe if he says them both or doesn't respond at all, because she bites her lip and doesn't make eye contact, and mutters something that he can't understand.

And she starts to leave, and he panics, and they both know that neither of them wants to leave, but there are secrets kept and words unspoken, and Naruto can't stand it.

And in a moment of pure, selfish, weakness, he runs after her and grabs her wrist. She stops in her tracks like he's paralyzed her, but to her it's like being struck by lightning and to him it's like being reenergized, and after too long a pause he spins her around and kisses her.

It was the spark that lit the fire, the fire that started the inferno, and he didn't regret it. Because in that moment, they both realized something: Sakura realized that _this, _this boy right here with the stupid grin and blue eyes (_not the boy with the knowing smirk and the endless black pools)_ was her salvation.

Naruto realized that he was just as low as _him,_ realized that he didn't care, because Sakura was here with him and not there with Sasuke and _maybe this wasn't the best idea, but who really gives a fuck?_

And they pull away and there's the spark in her eyes that's been gone too long, and he can still taste her and she's looking up at him, and he's thinking that _if this is what it takes to keep her alive, I'll do it._

Even if she didn't love him, even if his level of affection was hard to compete with, even if she was still trying to find and answer and a key and a way to break the trap that Sasuke laid out ever-so intricately.

So they meet like that, in sheds and in closets and on the roof, and sometimes they talk and sometimes they say nothing and sometimes they do a lot more than just talk. But there's always limits, always boundaries, always the fear that maybe she's a little too fragile, maybe he's a little lost, maybe this is all so very, very wrong.

And in an oddly pensive moment he asks her the question, the one that she's been asking herself all these months, the one that may or may not destroy all three of them.

"Why does it have to be like this?" His voice is soft, maybe a little choked up, and that's a million times worse than if he yelled. Sakura almost wishes he would yell, almost wishes that he'd up and leave her because she hates herself _so much_ right now, for doing this to him.

_Because I'm weak. Because I'm worthless. Because you're too nice, I'm too lost, and _he's _too selfish._

But unlike him, her thoughts and words are clearly separated, and she responds, quiet and soft, in almost a whisper, "I'm sorry." It's stupid and meaningless, and doesn't even answer his question, let along the unspoken ones.

_Why are you still with him? _

_Why are we doing this to ourselves?_

_Why don't you choose? _

_Sakura, why are you so self-destructive?_

And the silence is deafening, and he frowns but says nothing, and she offers a weak, "It's killing you."

It's a statement, not a question, and one that Naruto can't deny because it _is._

_It's not as bad as seeing you with him._

But these trysts have become his lifeblood, his drug; he can't say no to them even if he wants to, which he really doesn't. And Sakura clings to them just as much as he does, because she discovered long ago that Naruto was her savior and light and all that she could ever ask for.

He was also more than she could ever deserve.

"_I don't deserve this,_" she murmurs. They're on the roof, watching the stars come out, and she's leaning her head on his shoulder and he's caught between staring at her and staring at the sky.

_Deserve what?_ It must've been out loud, because she says, "You."

And he's utterly puzzled, because _deserve? Him? If anything, I don't deserve her._ But he must've not said anything this time, and she says, almost too quiet to hear, "I'm sorry, Naruto."

And he knows without asking what she's sorry for. And it hurts him, and he knows that Sasuke might have her heart on the most superficial and, maybe the deepest level, but he has everything in between.

He has her _soul._ And she – she has his. She's _had_ it from the very beginning. And now she's being careful with it, caring for it, cherishing it and wondering if maybe, maybe she _can_ ditch Sasuke because after all, _Naruto's…everything._

But Naruto, sick as it is, is okay with the situation – for now, at least. He sees her walk with Sasuke, then she'll catch sight of him and excuse herself, and he'd be waiting just around the corner and she'd forget about Sasuke for a (long) while.

And it's broken and maddening and _wrong,_ but they need each other, and maybe they like sneaking around or maybe they simply don't care about _him,_ because now Sakura can't remember when the last time she talked to Sasuke was, all she remembers is that Naruto wanted to meet her today on the roof.

And Naruto's there, watching waiting wanting, and he sees Sakura and is reminded of just how _broken_ she is, and he can feel his heart breaking with every passing minute. And this is one of those times when she comes and she's trying to hold back tears and it's not working, she breaks down when she sees him, and he can do nothing but put his arms around her and wipe her tears away with his thumb and hope, hope, hope, that she'll be released from the vicious cycle soon.

Because he's watching her being destroyed, watching her shatter from the inside out, and it's _killing him._

But that day – that one day, when they've done more taking and thinking than anything physical, that day when she turns to him, spark there in her green eyes, and says, "Thank you," does it ever really come to him that, _she's fighting, and she's dying, and screaming and she needs you and maybe just maybe – _

He doesn't finish that thought. Because they're in public and his hair is spiked and hers is _pink,_ and his trench coat is black and she's dressed all chic and they're _opposites, so very opposite, so wrong and – _

But when she presses the key into his hand and kisses him on the cheek, his thoughts are cut off and people are staring and she whispers, "Come over tonight." There was nothing sensual or seductive in her tone – she blinked at him once and then slipped into the crowd.

He spends a lot of time staring at the key, wondering what to do with it, and inevitably finds himself at her doorstep that night.

_She gave me the key. Just go inside._

And he does, and maybe he feels like he's intruding, but the house is quiet and there's nothing to see or hear.

A sense of panic invades him, and he's running, running, checking every room and then ponding up the stairs and turning sharply and his boots are making too loud a sound.

There she is, slumped against a wall, and he can't see what she's done to herself but he sees the bottles and the razor and he didn't know that _she's actually been killing herself all this time._ Her eyes flutter open when she catches sight of him, and she says, weakly, that he wasn't supposed to show up until later on, not now, not when she's like this.

And he curses and grips her hand as he calls for an ambulance and then there's sirens and he says, the only thing he _can say_ as tears stream down his face, is "Why?"

And she passes out and the people come and he's caught in a whirlwind and wondering just exactly when everything began to fall apart.

**Xxx**

**As always, let me know your thoughts.**


	3. Taken From Time

**Yea, I know there's stuff I need to update, but this came to me (and my inner mantra is Listen to Inspiration) and I like it. **

**Another introspective fic. Shorter than most of what I write, but a little ominous and a little angsty, just like its predecessors. **

**Thanks to everyone for the reviews!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. **

**Taken From Time**

It was stolen moments like these that he lives for.

What they have is like a secret, a game, and you constantly have to dodge, duck, swipe, maneuver; there is no surefire way to win, only stolen moments that you revel in while they last as you desperately try not to get caught, because then you'd lose.

It was a little complicated for one who couldn't quite grasp higher-level math, but if Naruto is one thing he is competitive. He would _not_ lose now, _refuses_ to lose _her._

As far as games go, she knows this one well. She is familiar with the strategies, with the routes, and sometimes Sakura guides Naruto along when it looks like he's about to make a fatal mistake. She is patient with him more often than not, now, because their time is limited and his stupidity is almost endearing. She's always found it endearing, but back then, Before, she had been able to hit him upside the head and admonish him for being so damn oblivious. It was a façade – one that you adopt to play the part the situation demands you play, but a façade nonetheless.

And Sakura was done with façades.

_But this is all a façade, isn't it? Only a little game that you play. A stupid, little, game. _

The thoughts are bitter, but they're true. He doesn't understand it, doesn't know the full story, but he goes along with it because she means all the worlds to him and he thinks that he (just might) mean the same to her.

They'll walk, and their hands will brush. He'll sling a friendly arm over her shoulders, but that's where the line is drawn: friendly. They may hug, but never too intimate or too long. Anything beyond that is treated like a fucking secret, their stolen moments in the garage or on the roof or behind locked doors, where there's a spark in her eyes and a fire in his.

Their stolen moments are when he feels alive, when she _feels,_ when there's no titles or extra residue from what they pretend to be. Here he isn't a menace to society trying to get by and she isn't an all-American trying to please everyone; here he is Naruto and she is Sakura and that's just about it.

He loves her, he knows this, _has known_ it, but holds back from telling her. He doesn't know why, because he's sure as hell that he's been more than frank with just about everything, and now there's no time for hiding. Still he doesn't say it, and neither does she, but what is love, anyway? Is it fleeting moments where you're knee-deep in bliss? Is it waiting just around the corner so you can talk freely? Is it touching and heat and whispered words? Is it something you can touch, taste, hear? Or is it something you must feel?

Because Naruto's sure that he hasn't felt anything this strongly for another person in gods-know-how long.

Sakura loves him, but she's scared shitless of the future, of what _will _or _may _happen, of what-ifs and has-beens and should-haves. She's living in the _now,_ dammit, playing a stupid little game to buy them time. But you can't buy time, can you? You can only borrow, because Time's a stingy bastard who wants to be repaid.

So she lives in these moments, lives _for _these moments, and tries to be the person she _is,_ not the person she has been pretending to be.

Naruto senses that something is wrong, that something isn't quite right, but there's not much he can do; Sakura assures him that no, everything's fine and you'll be alright.

And then, quietly, on the roof one night when she's leaning against his chest and the stars are out and in that one moment, everything's perfect. He knows it won't last, that soon they'll have to be on their way, but right now things are just right and he pulls her tighter to him and whispers, quietly, "Sakura?"

It's a question and she knows it. "Hmmm?" she asks, because the moment is perfect and she could hit him for breaking it. It's just right, and she's viewing the world through lidded eyes and the summer air is hot against her skin.

Naruto pauses, and buries his face in her hair. _I love you. So fucking much._ "Never mind," he murmurs. He doesn't know why he said her name in the first place and doesn't care; he doesn't want to ruin the moment by saying things that don't need to be said. She knows, he knows, even if no words were spoken, even if it's still a secret.

As if what they have isn't already a goddamn secret.

No, he won't ruin their moments, these desperate, stolen moments, by saying things that they both know anyway. He doesn't know when he realizes this, and doesn't dwell on it too much.

But there, in the back of his mind it festers silently, an ominous, looming presence just near the horizon, that with the rising of the sun everything will disappear.

Because he knows that their moments are stolen from Time.

And Time always collected its dues.

With interest.

**Hm. So whatddya think? Any suggestions for another little oneshot? What do you think they're hiding from – what is pressing them for time? Why must they play a stupid, little game? **

**As always, let me know your thoughts. **


	4. Intensity

**Disclaimer: I don't Own Naruto. **

*****_**In**__**t**_**en**s_i__t__**y***_

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Sakura of all people had absolutely nothing to fear from Naruto.

It is also universally acknowledged that Naruto simply isn't intimidating. And can you really be all that fearsome, when you're on the shorter side of the spectrum, blond, and _hyper?_ The scariest thing most can say about Naruto was the one time he had been allowed to consume three energy drinks and multiple pixie stix. It hadn't ended well, for any involved.

No, Naruto was only truly scary when he was truly pissed. Everyone and anyone who knew him would say that.

Except, that is, Sakura.

It was absurd, she knew; Naruto was like a puppy that doubled as a bodyguard that doubled as a best friend who she may or may not have feelings for.

…It was complicated.

But Sakura would testify to anyone that the scariest thing about Naruto was the level of intensity he could amp things up to.

It wasn't that he was pushy; it wasn't that he was too much; no, Naruto was just _intense. _Sakura didn't know what else to call it – power, force, passion?

Not many people saw that side of Naruto, and granted that his Naruto-ness could come on strong, but Sakura witnessed and entirely new form of intensity when she looked into his eyes.

They were pretty, and personality aside, probably his best asset. Deep and blue and expressive and just so – _heart wrenching._ Sakura loved his eyes. She'd told him as much, when things had been safe.

But things weren't safe anymore, not when he looked at her like _that._ Not when she was alone with him and he held nothing back.

Not when he told her he loved her.

And of course, because it was _Naruto,_ he told her in the most offhand, casual, non-romantic way possible.

And that scared her more than any dramatic declaration would _ever._

A dramatic declaration she could turn down, or reject, or fall into with as much zeal; she could be just as dramatic, or possibly more because she was a teenage girl and that's what teenage girls did.

But no. He stated it like a fact: it's hot outside; water's wet; I love you, Sakura.

And how the hell do you respond to that?

You can't just say nothing, right? You can't just…not respond. And you can't say no, because this is your best friend and you love him but just maybe not like that. It was _platonic._

Was it?

Anyhow, she couldn't reject him because he wasn't making a big deal about it, so _she_ couldn't make a big deal out of it, not without increasing the awkwardness of the situation.

But…

So she clamped her jaws shut and said nothing, only continued to stare at the stars because that was safest even if she was halfassing it.

Even if she knew how much she was hurting him.

And Naruto _was_ hurt. He didn't show it, though, even if something inside him was on the verge of dying. He hadn't meant to say it, _really_, but he_ meant _it. He loved Sakura, in every sense of the term. She loved him too, but it was more on the brother/best friend/comrade end of the spectrum.

Platonic.

He _hated_ that word.

_Oh so very much._

But she wasn't responding. Was that good? Or bad? Or –

_Aw, screw it._

Naruto turned to Sakura. "Sakura."

And that tone, the one that boys use when they mean _serious business,_ made her stop. A knot formed in her gut. "Yes?"

"Look at me."

Sakura really _hated _it when Naruto was serious. But she sat up and turned to look at him, suddenly hyperaware of the cool night air and the grass beneath her legs and the way that breeze tickled her neck. She could feel the weight of his gaze, read the expression on his face.

But his eyes were what scared her.

Equal parts hurt and understanding and plea and something more stared out at her. She stared back, but dropped her gaze to his mouth. She couldn't meet his eyes. Not now.

"Look at me. Please."

Maybe it was the words; maybe it was the way his voice cracked; maybe it was the edge lurking just beneath his tone. Sakura didn't know _what_ it was that made her eyes flick up, but whatever it was, it was heartbreaking.

And they sat there under the stares, simply _looking_ at each other, staring, saying more with their eyes than they ever could with words. But, eventually he becomes too intense, showing more of himself, baring himself, giving her his heart and letting her do what she wishes with it and that power _scares her shitless._

So she drops her eyes.

And that _kills _him.

"Sakura," he says, softly, quietly, "Why won't you look at me?"

It takes her a moment to register his words, another to form a response. "Because," she says, voice uncharacteristically small, "It scares me."

"I – I _scare _you? Sakura – "

But she can't take it. The dramatic inside her begins to take over, be it from stress or fear or _whatever._ "You – I – you're – you're _intense,_ Naruto. You're being so – so honest and – and -" she glances up at him, and then back down at her hands. Her fists are clenched so tightly that her knuckles are white.

He gathers her hands into his. His skin is tan compared to her white, his hands even more calloused than hers. He has more scars, too, and his nails are bitten to the quick. "You have _nothing,_" he says, voice wavering, "To fear from me. Believe it, Sakura."

She knows that if she looks up now he'll be staring down at her like _that,_ his eyes soft around the corners and his mouth turned into a gentle smile.

_The epitome of love scares me._

It was ridiculous, but the sad truth.

A lump forms in her throat. "That right there," she says, "Is what scares me. I can't look at you when you look at me like that, because if I do –"

He squeezes her hands. "If you do, what?"

She's staring at his chest, at the necklace that she can see now because his jacket's off. Her eyes travel up, to his neck and chin and mouth and nose and –

His _eyes._

She had plans to play it light, but they broke under his scrutiny. "Because then I'd fall in love with you," she chokes out, and he pulls her to him and kisses her.

And what do you do when your best friend kisses you?

If you're Sakura Haruno, you kiss him back and fling your arms around him and when it's over you smile and can't stop and figure that maybe, maybe you really _do_ have nothing to fear, just as long as you don't look _too_ deeply into his eyes.

And if you're Naruto Uzumaki then you grin like the idiot you are and pull her close and wonder if, just maybe, this could lead to love. She thinks so, and he hopes so.

Because he was already halfway there.

**I honestly don't know where the hell that came from; I just…typed and I guess this is where I end up. A thousand some words of what the fuckery. **

**Eh. I'm taking ideas/prompts. **

**As always, let me know your thoughts. **


End file.
